Brown hair, long to her shoulders, bangs cut straight across her forehead, she holds 30 strands, pulled from behind her ear. Played nervously with her youthful hands, curled in a loop, two fingers hold it as she rubs the circle of hair with her thumb, squishing its roundness, contorting its shape, stroking its glossy sheen. Baggy fresh blue jeans, do nothing, a red top, sleeveless clings tight on her form.
Walking up to the counter, she stands next to me, I turn my head to the left. There was no way to miss seeing the swooping neckline, a valley of fabric gently flows down from the tips of her shoulders, a quarter of the top of her breasts have no cover. Youthful color, clean of the suns damage, accentuates her view. A single layers of fabric cover them, firm, showing no arousal, minus the bra of a lesser beauty.
I need a clever comment from her, to add to my story. Should I say? Painting a picture with words, I’m a journalist, you are my next entry. Can I learn more about you. Prove to me that you are more than what I see. Your reality, for a moment, shifts from you to me. A picture is developing inside of my brain, all the colors, shapes, movement’s pass through the processor, printing out on the paper through this pen. Will you assist me with this? Your input is graciously appreciated. Your influence could change the entire view of my story. I will do this the next time.
When we did speak, during that brief conversation, the octave of her voice was one or two below what you would expect, adding to her exotic tones, like the tattoos on her ankle. Fingers with nails trimmed short, had no jewelry. She liked playing with her hair.
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